


Whatsername

by leopion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Compliancy: HBP, F/M, Memory Modification, Muggle Life, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Strong Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopion/pseuds/leopion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers her face. He remembers that she held a special place in his heart. But he cannot remember her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatsername

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> This story is dedicated to the ever so awesome Amethyst18 as a birthday present.
> 
> It's somewhat a continuation of my drabble 'For Once' but is not necessarily so. The title and part of the inspiration came from the song _Whatsername_ by Green Day. The storyline is only based _very loosely_ on the song, though.
> 
> Finally, a big big thank you to Olga and Terra for the absolutely urgent beta-work despite RL, DBB deadline and everything.

**Part 1**

A strand of dark brown hair fluttering in the gentle wind, a glimpse of a delicate frame hastening through the bustling crowd, and he knew it was her—across the street. He wanted to call to her but couldn’t. Her name refused to appear on the tip of his tongue. So he ran, racing after her, neither caring about where he was going nor about other passers-by cursing loudly when he crashed into them. He remembered her being like this—such a quick pace for such a petite person. He kept chasing, practically fighting his way towards her. There were moments when she seemed so close, but just when he thought he could touch her, she had gone beyond his reach. His heart leapt as she melted into the busy streets of New York. But then he saw her again, taking a turn at the corner, a streak of brown lingering in his vision before disappearing with its owner. He sprinted like a mad man, arriving at the corner only to be faced with the eerie elongation of a deserted lane. He ground to a halt. He had lost her. Again.

He lost all his senses every time he caught sight of her. He thought he was driving himself slowly insane by these maddening chases, which always ended in her simply disappearing, evaporating into thin air. That was when he usually woke up from his trance, returning to reality like he was doing now. He ran again, but this time with deliberation and not so much excitement: He was going to be late for the meeting with an important client.

He came back to his office, twenty minutes late. Nina, his boss’s secretary, told him that Joe had been consulting the client in his place and that his boss demanded to see him as soon as he arrived. He entered the manager’s office, immediately interrogated about the reasons of his unpunctuality but determined not to explain anything at all.

‘If you weren't the best consultant of our firm, you would have been long fired by now,’ his manager concluded. ‘See to it that it doesn’t happen again.’

‘I will,’ replied Draco, nodding before exiting the room, bumping into Clara who was about to enter.

‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ she said sympathetically before continuing with her work.

He went back to his office, encountering various greetings along the way.

‘Good day to you, too, Rachel,’ he replied absently, closing the door behind him.

Draco ached at the knowledge that he had picked up so effortlessly the names of all his female colleagues while the name of the very woman he held most dear, he could not recall. She had vanished from his life, and so had her name. It was not long ago, if he could trust the fragments of memories in his mind, as absurd and illogical as they were. They had a fight— her throwing things and yelling at him, with him yelling back and walking out on her. Perhaps it was really how their relationship had ended.

***

 _Thirteen months ago_

Hermione heard screaming. She wanted to open her eyes, but the lids were too heavy. Her body ached and her head felt numb. Someone’s hand grabbed her arm, their nails digging excruciatingly into her skin. But another pair of strong arms also hoisted her up, wrapping themselves firmly around her waist. Before she could register what had happened earlier, she felt an intense pressure squeezing her body from all directions. _Apparition_ , she realised as her brain started to regain its function. She kept her eyes closed, continuing to feel the secure embrace, the comforting warmth enveloping her and the pleasant smell of cologne fondling her nostrils. Who was this man with whom she was travelling? Her mind was still too muddled and foggy to make out her rescuer; all she could perceive was that it must have been a fair distance for them to be in this state for such a long time.

As the compacting sensation faded away, Hermione cracked open her eyes. A blur of blond hair was enough to make everything rush back to her memories—the cell, the coming execution, and _him_. His arms still hadn’t let go of her waist. She raised her hand and slapped him across the face, causing him to stumble to the side. He quickly straightened up, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. She took a step backwards, stunned by her own strength, never realising that the blood had been there long before. Unfortunately, she seemed to have conveyed all of the strength she had left into that one slap. Her knees suddenly felt weak, as though all of her energy had been drained away. She nearly toppled, but he caught her in time, once again enclosing her within his arms. He attempted to steady her frame even as she tried to yank away, too stubborn to accept his help. Besides, what could guarantee that he was actually helping her?

‘Where are we?’ she asked as soon as her feet had planted firmly on the ground. They were on a landing of what seemed to be a fire escape of a Muggle building. ‘Why did you—’

It didn’t take long for Hermione to realise that she had been put under a Silencing Charm, and she was quite conscious of the fact that one of Malfoy’s hands was currently sliding down the small of her back. She made another go at his cheek, her insubordinately limp hand colliding with his in a muffled thud. Then despite all her feeble physical protests, he pulled her closer.

‘Trust me,’ he said plainly, steering her towards the door. _Why should I?_ The question echoed in Hermione’s head, but she obediently followed his steps. She was resigned to the fact that she was in no position to oppose now. She couldn’t use magic or violence, for that matter. After ten months of imprisonment, she felt as if she could easily be broken like a piece of china.

He opened the door before them, and she was dazzled by the brilliant light, stifled by the sudden gust of fresh air. He kept walking, giving her no time to adjust herself to the world she had long since forgotten. Her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the brightness, noticing that they were making their way through the hall of an airport that was packed with people. Although her breathing had started to even out, she was struggling to keep up with Malfoy’s long, quick strides, the speed of their march causing the wind to stroke her bare skin a little too intensely, raising goose bumps. Hermione became self-conscious about the dress she was wearing. Without the ragged clothing, the grime, the dried mixture of blood and tears that had swathed her for months, she suddenly felt exposed. And... _how the hell did he get her into this dress?_

‘I got a house-elf to dress you,’ Malfoy said as though he could read her mind. Well, maybe he really could. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was indeed adept at Legilimency.

Hermione could swear that this was the longest walk she had ever taken to board a plane. Malfoy checked the watch on his free hand, all the while never breaking his steps, but then suddenly came to an abrupt halt. She gasped, barely having time to catch her breath when she felt herself being lifted up in the air and soon engaged in a full-speed ride on Malfoy’s arms. She could not object; all she could do was to throw her arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

When they nearly reached the check-in counter, he hissed into her ear, showing almost no sign of breathlessness. ‘Listen. You’ve got a terminal illness. We’re married. Here for honeymoon. Have to go back immediately to resume your treatment. Are we clear?’

 _What the hell was he playing at?_

Then as they drew to a stop, Malfoy hissed out of the corner of his mouth, his voice only loud enough for her to hear. ‘I’m going to lift the charm now. Be sure to play along, or else these Muggles will have to pay.’

Hermione gave a reluctant nod. Malfoy put her down and shoved his hand into his pocket.

‘What a great way to gain my trust, Malfoy,’ she muttered as they walked the remaining distance to the counter, but then said nothing else. Malfoy was keeping his hand in the pocket, and she knew that he wouldn’t hesitate carrying out his threat.

‘Oh, here you are,’ said an airline agent as soon as they approached. ‘I thought you didn’t make it in time.’

‘Yes, we had quite a ride,’ he said, taking out a sheaf of documents from his breast pocket. Hermione made an effort not to snort. ‘Here’s our identification papers and tickets. The luggage—’

‘Has all been registered and loaded,’ the agent cut in, picking the papers from Malfoy.

‘We don’t know how to express our gratitude,’ said Malfoy.

‘You’re very welcome, Mr Platt,’ she said, beaming at both Malfoy and Hermione. ‘Now, we must hurry. It’ll be done in just a second.’

They waited as check-in procedure was carried out, Malfoy continuing to grip her hand tightly.

‘Um, Mr Platt, do you want me to tell our in-flight doctor to pay extra medical attention to your wife?’

‘No,’ blurted Hermione at once, causing the woman to look up in surprise.

‘Are you sure, honey?’ gritted Malfoy through his teeth, whipping his head to look straight into her face, though his tone came out quite saccharine.

‘Yes, I am,’ she said, hoping against hope that this wouldn’t result in a massacre. Despite her suspicions, she was actually cooperating. It wouldn’t do at all if a doctor examined her and found out their lie. Fortunately, Malfoy seemed to catch her logic.

‘Okay, as long as you’re comfortable,’ he said, taking back their documents while mouthing something about stubbornness to the agent, who smiled and wished them a good journey.

After another wild ride on an airport bus, they at last made it to the plane with only minutes to spare. It seemed that the whole plane had known about their heart-warming _fake_ story: All were casting fond looks as they walked by. They finally settled down—more like he forced her into the window seat so that he could sit down next to the aisle—but thankfully, they weren’t required to have much interaction during the flight, except for one occasion when she needed to go to the loo and Malfoy had played the perfect part of a loving husband fussing over his poor sick wife.

‘That is so sweet,’ cooed the old lady sitting behind them when he _insisted_ on escorting her to the toilet.

‘Don’t try anything funny,’ he warned before letting her in.

Of course, Hermione didn’t or rather she couldn’t. If she did, Malfoy would very well blow up the plane along with the passengers while Apparating himself away as easy as pie. Besides, she still needed time to process everything. The seven-hour flight was more than enough for every piece of the puzzle to fall into places.

As soon as they got into the hotel room Malfoy had booked in Boston and were far from Muggle preying eyes, Hermione exploded. ‘What’s all this shit about, Malfoy?’

‘Can’t we save the explanation for tomorrow?’ he winced, heading for the bathroom. ‘I rather need a shower right now.’

 _Thump_. A pillow from the double bed crashed into the back of his skull.

‘Get back here, Malfoy!’ shouted Hermione. The meal on the plane had clearly returned most of her strength.

‘You’ve got a very odd way of expressing your gratitude, Granger,’ he simply sniggered in response. ‘Don’t forget I’m still the one with the wand here.’

‘I don’t bloody care, you arsehole. What is there to lose? And what do I have to thank you for anyway?’

‘Are you playing dumb or have all of the tortures damaged your brilliant brain? I’ve just saved you from a barbaric execution. That’s what!’

‘Really? So you are my knight in shining amour?’ She gave a short maniacal laugh before shouting in outrage, ‘OR ARE YOU JUST TRICKING ME INTO LEADING YOU TO HARRY?’

‘Show’s over, Malfoy,’ she said more quietly, advancing on her still stunned-looking enemy, then proceeded to grip at his shirt. ‘Now, just do me in and bring the corpse back to your bloody master.’

‘I never said anything about Potter,’ he snarled, wrenching her away from him. ‘And for your information, I never will. Where the hell did you get the—’

‘Why else would you explain the fact that there were no Death Eaters after us?’

‘Oh, there were,’ replied Malfoy. ‘Only you were fucking Stunned.’

‘I wasn't as Stunned as you thought I was, Malfoy. I heard screaming, a set-up scene, perhaps. But there was this lovely hand of one of your allies that _latched_ onto my arm just before we Apparated. How do you explain why they hadn’t been able to tag along?’

‘Because it was my bloody house,’ he said simply. ‘No one but Malfoys can break through the wards.’

‘And that’s why they couldn’t follow us to the airport? And they wouldn’t suspect a Muggle airport, would they, let alone Paris-Charles de Gaulle? Brilliant plan, Malfoy. You almost had me there,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Except you’ve clearly missed a vital point.’

‘Now, what is it?’ he asked impatiently.

‘Oh, please. Like you would ever actually risk your neck to save me. You selfish bastard.’

‘YES!’ growled Malfoy, his face suddenly contorted. ‘I _really_ am a selfish bastard. I shouldn’t have abandoned _them_ to save _you_. My mistake!’

Malfoy walked out, slamming the door shut. Hermione could hear the lock click before she was surrounded by utter silence.

He came back very late that night, drunk and barely able to make it through the door. Hermione wondered how he had managed to unlock their room, though she decided not to waste her time and seized this chance to take the wand in his possession. She needed to get away. She didn’t know exactly where to, but she had to do it. Hermione searched his trouser pockets, and his jacket. Her fingers finally found the hardness of wood beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt. She slid her hand into his breast pocket, slowly and carefully. He grunted but did not wake up. She could almost touch it—no—them, for there were two wands in his pocket, not one. _Merlin, did he...?_ She prevented herself from thinking further, afraid that her resolve would break. She took out one of the wands, raising it and mentally picturing the Prudential Center courtyard. She tried hard to focus to avoid Splinching herself, but Malfoy, his words and the second wand kept preying on her mind. Hermione lowered the wand in her hand, letting out a long sigh before lifting it again, levitating him onto the bed and taking off his shoes. It was the first time she got to use magic in months. It felt strange, but warm and secure... just like Malfoy’s embrace.

***

 **Part 2**

He could recognise her anywhere. He saw her in his dreams, in vibrant flashbacks, in his waking hours. He caught sight of her at his office, in his neighbourhood, and this morning across the street from the car-park. Yet she was never really there. He had just been pursuing a memory—the ghost of a memory. She was like a fragrance obscuring his senses, which he could not reach, could not touch, could not keep.

She came in various clothes, sometimes in professional work clothes, other times in casual summer dresses. There was even one occasion in his dream when she wore a set of peculiar black robes. She was younger then, hanging around with a gaggle of other teenagers in the same bizarre outfits as though that was their uniform. But no matter what she was wearing, he knew all too well that petite frame, those frizzy curls bouncing at the back of her head like a halo, that affectionate pool of chocolate that was her eyes. Her face, her scent, her every curve—he remembered, so vividly that he could almost feel her every time he closed his eyes.

He didn’t know where he had met her, nor did he know what exactly she had been to him. His girlfriend? His lover? Or his wife? All he knew was that she was an important piece of him, that he craved her presence and that he had been living in hell ever since she left. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a single period in his life that she could fit in. His life—he had no apparent images of it other than the past five months. Sure, he remembered enough to make a brief summary. He was left at the door of an orphanage in a remote town in Alaska as a wee baby, a name tag tucked in his blanket. Draco Malfoy, read the name, which later on he discovered was either a dragon or some cruel Athenian law-making bloke. Other than the strange name that raised eyebrows everywhere he went, there was nothing magnificent in Draco’s life. He left the orphanage at eighteen for university. After graduation, he jumped from job to job, from place to place until he began his position here five months ago. That much he remembered, but not a single lucid memory.

And then there was her, sticking out from his picture of a perfectly dull and normal life like her disobedient curls sticking out from her bun—out of place, but beautiful and fascinating. The mere amount of his memories about her suggested that she had been there—in his life—forever. Nevertheless, the only material proof of her existence he had left was a six-by-nine photo taken from an automatic booth. He took out his wallet and removed the old photo tucked neatly inside. They were happy together; he was sure. He could see radiant sparks shimmering in both their eyes.

***

 _Ten months ago_

‘Oh, come on, Draco. You’re no fun,’ she exclaimed, tugging at his sleeve and then finally deciding to grab his whole arm to drag him towards the booth. Draco put up quite a fight, both in action and words. But Merlin, that little witch was a strong one. He eventually gave in, following her skipping steps, though he continued to mumble. ‘I still don’t see any bloody point in taking a photo that doesn’t move.’

She whirled around, beginning to walk backwards, bending her back a little as though she was coaxing a little child who had refused to eat his vegetables. ‘It can’t move, but it helps you to keep the moments, silly. That’s one of the things I love about it, capturing the moment exactly as it was.’

Draco decided to bite back his retort about Pensieves being a much more reliable tool to preserve memories. He wanted everything to go well on their first date. Well, it wasn’t exactly a first date, considering they had been living under the same roof for three months and had been on a first name basis for two. There was something strangely bonding about struggling in the Muggle world together. For three months they had practically survived by Confundus Charms and, in Draco’s case, Legilimency. Having become fairly settled, they wanted to spend time relaxing. Going to the amusement park was Hermione’s idea.

They entered the booth, which contained a screen and a board full of buttons. Draco had long passed the point of mentally raising his eyebrows at every Muggle device he encountered. Indeed, it was pretty easy just to follow the labels they had on everything. Quite honestly, he found the scatter-brainedness of these Muggles rather endearing in his current life.

He was about to examine the machine when Hermione swatted his hands away and began operating it, explaining the function of each button in the very same tone that years ago she used to quote _The Standard Book of Spells_. Know-it-all.

‘There,’ she said, summing up her long-winded lecture. ‘Now say "cheese".’

He placed his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer, looking at the image of himself grinning broadly on the screen. At least, she was _his_ know-it-all now.

***

 **Part 3**

The door of Draco’s office creaked open without a knock. He didn’t even have to look up to know who the intruder was.

‘How was the meeting?’ he asked distractedly.

‘Quite well, actually,’ answered Joe, settling himself on the guest seat. ‘Why—’

‘What did the customer want?’ interrupted Draco.

Joe made a face. ‘Like you really care. But well, basically, they’re having financial difficulties because their main manufacturing site in France was wiped out by an earthquake. Now, the point is—’

‘Okay, I saw her,’ said Draco, knowing perfectly well that Joe would never stop until he got the answer. ‘Happy now?’

‘Blimey, you saw her. Again? Haven’t you let her go and moved on already?’ exclaimed Joe in his usual melodramatic tone, which Draco pointedly ignored.

‘You mustn’t waste your time, mate! This world’s going to end soon. Britain is completely blasted by disaster. And now France. Who knows when it’s gonna reach here?’

‘You don’t believe any of the bullshit you’ve just thrown out, Joe, I’m sure of it.’

Joe decided to change his tactics. ‘Draco, every girl in this entire building is crazy about you. Clara’s crowned the Ice Queen, and even _she_ seems to fancy you.’

‘That is her business, not mine,’ said Draco curtly, starting to grow infuriated.

‘But she is the most beautiful, att—’

‘Still none of my business,’ he snapped. ‘Now, stop bothering me!’

‘Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you are—’

‘And if I didn’t know better, I’d think you fancy me,’ said Draco wryly. ‘Now get your ass out of here before I have to kick you out.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Joe as he retreated to the door, recognising that Draco was in a dangerous mood. ‘But seriously, Draco, whoever this girl was to you, she’s in the _past_. You have to live in the _present_.’

 _Live in the present?_ Why did it sound incredibly familiar? But how? Considering he had never recalled more than just mute dreams...

***

 _Six months ago_

Draco woke up, startled by the absence of Hermione’s usual warmth when she snuggled up against his chest. What was she doing out of bed at this hour? It didn’t take him long to find the answer as he heard quiet sobs coming from the half-closed bathroom door. He silently approached the sound, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do. He knew that she had started feeling unhappy lately, but he hadn’t been prepared for this. He hated it when women cried.

He pushed the door open, and there she was, sitting on the toilet lid, cradling her legs. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

‘Oh, Draco, I’m so sorry that I woke you,’ she said, once again burying her face in her hands.

‘That’s not the problem,’ he responded, stepping closer and pulling her into a gentle embrace. ‘What is it that bothers you?’

‘It’s nothing really,’ said Hermione, looking pointedly at the tiled floor.

Draco pulled back and grabbed her by her shoulders, tenderly but still enough to will her into facing him. ‘I know that you’ve been upset for weeks,’ he said tentatively. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Nothing is wrong, Draco,’ she sobbed, tears glistening in her eyes again. Draco didn’t say anything but merely waited, for he knew Hermione’s answer would come at last.

‘Nothing is wrong,’ she repeated, her voice cracking. ‘Everything is just so perfect that I can’t bear it anymore. I can’t live this peaceful ideal life knowing that I have abandoned my friends, my family, my comrades.’ She sniffed, choking back her tear. ‘I have abandoned all of them for this. I don’t deserve this.’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said Draco, rehearsing the same line he had said to her a long time ago.

They sat there mutely before Hermione broke the silence with her soft whisper. ‘I want to go back.’

‘You’ve been okay with staying here for months, so why start now?’

‘I was blind, Draco,’ she said in response. ‘I was so plagued by the loss, the desperation that I convinced myself that there was no other way.’

Draco was going to cut in, but she had continued. ‘And then I was too preoccupied by the endeavour to settle here. Sometimes I felt that it wasn’t right, but I ignored it until these past few weeks. I’ve realised that I cannot turn a blind eye anymore.’

‘But you know we can’t go back, Hermione. There’s nothing but death waiting.’

He stressed the last words, once again feeling an uncanny sense of déjà vu. They’d had this conversation before, on their second day in Boston, only she was businesslike and even a bit angry then. Things were divided neatly into hers and his. It was so much easier to deal with.

‘But are we safe here?’

He didn’t answer; the limited affirmative resonating in his mind somehow sounded even more depressing than an absolute ‘no’.

‘Only for now, isn’t it?’ said Hermione, finally extracting herself from Draco’s arms. Sitting back upright, she looked straight into his eyes and stated more resolutely, ‘Draco, I _have_ to go back.’

‘We go back and then what? Hide like rats?’ blurted Draco, the words coming out of his mouth far more harshly than they should have.

‘Then what do you call what we’re doing here?’ she countered, raising her voice.

‘At least we have a home. We have things to enjoy. We are _living_ ,’ he replied hotly and stood up, towering above her.

‘But, Draco, how long will it last?’ asked Hermione, her cheeks flushing as the stream of questions continued to flow. ‘How long do we have until Voldemort finally reaches this country and destroys it? Will we be running away again then? Faking everything all over again? How long do we have until there’s nowhere else to run? Until he has taken over this whole world?’

‘We could cherish it while it last, Hermione, rather than run straight into death.’

‘What if there is still hope?’

‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ he pointed out. ‘You just said the Dark Lord was taking over the world, and now you’re trying to tell me there is hope?’

‘No, I’m not. If everyone stops fighting like us, then he would win without even striking. But if we could stand up against him, if Harry—’

‘Potter is dead.’

‘No one can be sure of that, Draco, even Voldemort himself. That’s why he organised those disgusting rituals, didn’t he? Trying to lure Harry out to save his friends?’

‘And did Potter ever appear?’

‘He... he could have been biding his time,’ she said uncertainly.

‘In case you haven’t noticed, it is Harry-bleeding-Potter we’re talking about. Do you really think that he would have let his friends murdered had he been alive?’

Hermione remained silent then eventually said, ‘But what about what we left there?’

‘What we left there?’ asked Draco, outraged. ‘I threw away everything I had that day. I couldn’t even keep a bloody name. Don’t you dare ask me to do it _again_!’

The moment the words escaped his lips, he knew he was going too far.

‘I...’ began Hermione, but Draco placed a finger on her trembling lips.

‘I didn’t have to give up anything,’ he said quietly. ‘I traded them up to the best times of my life. I just want to let it last, okay?’

Hermione gave a reluctant nod. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, whispering, ‘Just promise me you’ll live in the present.’

***

 **Part 4**

He tried to forget her. He really did. And he had discovered that alcohol could produce such devastating results. He suspected that after she left he had drunk—a lot—to chase away the memories of her. That was how he woke up in the evening of his last day in Boston, head throbbing and almost blank. He remembered his flight to New York merely owing to a reminder he had previously set in his cell phone. He had drunk himself into forgetfulness. He had nearly succeeded, very nearly succeeded. The intoxicant didn’t wash all of her away but only the one thing that it deemed important, and it was killing him inside. He’d rather keep everything or nothing at all.

Draco had decided to stay away from alcohol after that day. However, today he broke that resolution, hoping that this time it would succeed in taking the rest of her away. He raised the bottle of whiskey to his lips and took another swig. There she was, standing in front of the fireplace, peering questioningly at him with her soulful brown eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, though she was still there, even clearer than before. He wanted to shout at himself that this was not real, _she_ was not real; but he just couldn’t. She had been there, hadn’t she? Or had he obliterated her there in his desperate attempt to escape the past?

He had tried to get rid of everything connected to her before he left Boston. How else could he explain the fact that his large empty flat didn’t contain a single item that could have belonged to her? But somehow he knew something about her still remained there, leaving him no choice but to move away. Perhaps it wasn’t the alcohol’s fault after all. From time to time Draco had the feeling that he could have actually forgotten her if not for that fateful instant when he bid his last goodbye to the place.

It seemed as if fate was playing a game with him, causing a tiny speck of the extant photograph to catch his eyes. He could have ignored it and just left. But he stopped and picked up the photo. He didn’t know what had possessed him into placing it in his wallet. After all, hadn’t he tried to burn every last photograph of theirs, leaving a massive heap of ashes in the fireplace? On occasions, he questioned why he had to do so instead of merely throwing them into the trash can. But deep down, he knew the reason. Even in the trash they would still linger. The only way to completely wipe them out was the fire. Then again, the fire had failed in obliterating one of them—the one that had refused to be destroyed with the others, the one that he was holding right now between his fingers, the one that had brought back her image and burnt it into his memory. But the crazy thing was even though they were flooding his mind, images could only bring back mere images—or sometimes even scent and touch—but never the sounds. Sometimes it was like a mute video playing in his brain. Sometimes it was much more real when he was inside the scene—seeing, smelling, touching, feeling, holding her—but when he said something to her or she said something back, it was only the movement of their lips that he was able to record. He remembered calling her name in his sleep, but every time he woke up it had mysteriously slipped away—like her slipping away from him—without a trace.

***

 _Five months ago_

Draco got into the car and drove home, for the last time, he supposed. Eight months ago the very notion of driving a Muggle car had been so ridiculous to even think about, but now Draco had a feeling that he was going to miss this. But he had decided. She was the only loved one he had left. Although she tried to hide her unhappiness after that night, nothing could escape his discerning eyes. He couldn’t stand by and watch her suffer. They would go back, maybe to their death. There would be blood, toil, tears and sweat on the way, but as long as they were together, as long as her mind could rest, then he could bear it. This time, it was no longer a last-minute decision that came out of momentary compassion like the last time, when he had saved her and thus saved his own soul from hell. This time he had thought it over; he had decided to do it for her and only her.

He stopped his car right in front of their blocks of flats, abandoning his usual habit to carefully park it a few blocks away. Who cared about that when they were about to leave? Grabbing the plane tickets on the dashboard, he ran out of his car and raced upstairs. He burst open the door and ran into the living room to find her sitting in front of the fireplace. She looked up, startled, then swiftly turned towards him, blocking the fireplace from his view.

‘You’re early,’ she said with a questioning look. She leaned closer to the fireplace, and he could make out a hint of flickering flame behind.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, out of curiosity. It didn’t really matter now that they were coming back.

She flicked her wand, extinguishing the fire.

‘I just... missed Hogwarts,’ she said, a simple sentence all the explanation he needed.

‘I know,’ he said, smiling. A bemused expression crossed on her face. ‘We’re going back,’ he clarified, holding up the plane tickets he had been hiding behind his back. ‘We’ll catch a flight to Nice tonight and then travel from there. Anywhere farther north would be too dangerous.’

Hermione’s lips parted. ‘Really?’

‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’ asked Draco.

She stood rooted to the spot, scrutinising his face for a moment.

‘Merlin, you are not,’ she exclaimed at last, running towards Draco and throwing her arms around his shoulders. He also enfolded his arms around her waist, slightly lifting her up from the ground.

‘Thank you so much, Draco,’ she breathed. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too,’ he whispered back, knowing that he would never want to turn back, no matter what.

‘I know,’ she replied, her voice now soaking with tears.

He opened his mouth to console her, but she cut in, sobbing, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Draco pulled back in disbelief. Something was up. ‘For wha—’

 _‘Stupefy!’_

Hermione’s voice had gone completely cracked when she gushed out the incantation, but it was still clear enough to work. Draco’s body slackened in her arms, the tickets dropping from his limp hand. She raised her wand once more time to lift him onto the couch and to Vanish the two tickets, replacing them with one that would fly to New York. Then, kneeling down beside him, she whispered her answer to his listless form, ‘I’m so sorry I have to do this to you.’

She put away the wand she was holding and reached for his wand, this time knowing exactly where it was. Once her fingers had finally wrapped around the smooth surface of hawthorn, she could feel the familiar warmth and security immediately return to her—a sensation that, despite nearly eight months of usage, his grandmother’s wand had never brought.

‘You’ve sacrificed too much for me, Draco,’ she murmured through a veil of tears. ‘I can’t let you do it again. I won’t let you give up everything for me ever again.’

And with those words, Hermione performed the intricate piece of magic that would bring her Draco to a brand new start. Afterwards she was left to continue the painful errand of destroying what _she_ had created—the clothes, the books, the calls and messages in his mobile... everything.

Returning the phone to Draco’s pocket, Hermione stood up and took one last look at his sleeping form. He looked so peaceful when he slept. Peace... it was what he deserved. As an afterthought, she pulled out her wand and cast another spell. ‘Farewell-party impact,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘It would be more plausible.’

Hermione bent down and planted a kiss on Draco’s head, feeling his soft hair tickling her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered once again before walking out of the door, their favourite photograph in her breast pocket, pressing close to her heart. Inside the flat, another copy of the very same photo lay hidden, almost inconspicuous beneath the ashes.

***

Draco reached for his lighter. He had made up his mind to finish the job he should have done long ago. He watched as the flame maliciously licked the already singed edges, burning its way towards her. He let it consume her in the hope of scraping her away from his heart. But then at the very moment when the last of the photo turned into ashes, he realised that he could and would still keep remembering, keep missing her regardless.

That night, he went to sleep, dreaming about her as always.

‘Hermione,’ he sighed into the pillow, the name escaping his mouth as easily as a gentle breath, waiting for a day it would roar free not only in his sleep.


End file.
